Arkansas

In 1923, Arkansas established a state poet laureate position, which is currently held by Jo McDougall, who was appointed to a four-year term in 2018. McDougall is the author of several poetry collections, including The Undiscovered Room (Tavern Books, 2016). She lives in Little Rock, Arkansas.

Related Poems

Some nights I sleep with my dress on. My teeth
are small and even. I don't get headaches.
Since 1971 or before, I have hunted a bench
where I could eat my pimento cheese in peace.
If this were Tennessee and across that river, Arkansas,
I'd meet you in West Memphis tonight. We could
have a big time. Danger, shoulder soft.
Do not lie or lean on me. I'm still trying to find a job
for which a simple machine isn't better suited.
I've seen people die of money. Look at Admiral Benbow. I wish
like certain fishes, we came equipped with light organs.
Which reminds me of a little known fact:
if we were going the speed of light, this dome
would be shrinking while we were gaining weight.
Isn't the road crooked and steep.
In this humidity, I make repairs by night. I'm not one
among millions who saw Monroe's face
in the moon. I go blank looking at that face.
If I could afford it I'd live in hotels. I won awards
in spelling and the Australian crawl. Long long ago.
Grandmother married a man named Ivan. The men called him
Eve. Stranger, to tell the truth, in dog years I am up there.

All that is leftunaccounted for:elegance marriedto rust. On the roof, raindwelling in the corrugations.Some slats vanishedaltogether, a blanknessgiving way to sky. But the eaveshold in perfect vertices,refuse to abandontheir beauty, hard-earned.High on the yellow silo,the conveyor’s latticeis as finely wroughtas a string instrument’sstruts and braces: precisionin every coordinateand all across the godlike slantfrom tower to the ground.There would be no time at allif not for moss swellingin concrete cracks,the guard rails paperedby lichen. If not for the restof the world, the silenceit attempts to punctuate:crow caw. Engine roar.Horns of every pitchand color. The train’sshuddering Doppler,crossing us now—as always—in near-perfect intervals. Eventhough there is no tangiblegood to stop for,nothing whole to take away.